An Abundance of Swear Words
by Wearyofthesea
Summary: There's only so many lies Deceit can keep up with, the other sides have a mountains worth filling up their heads, so when Deceit gets too overwhelmed and the others are suddenly left without them, it's going to take a lot of Remus-brand damage control to set it right. Sanders Sides - Endgame Polyamory
1. Chrysalism

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Chapter 1: Chrysalism - n. the amniotic tranquillity of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

Saying Gotham isn't a nice place to live would be an understatement. Even if many areas have been revitalised, much of the outskirts of this fair city were still in ruins from the earthquake a few years back, leaving many of the previously wealthy areas as the broken homes of the poor and while efforts are being made to reach these areas, they are not a priority. Petty crime is more prevalent in these places, however, no inch of the city is immune to the… peculiar band of costumed criminals that've made their home here, though it wouldn't be particularly pleasant in the absence of the Rogue Gallery either. The city is such a dreary place it's surprising that anyone can find it habitable at all, the sun being so rare that there was truly no point in so much as considering solar panels, and dark clouds smothered the sky for most of the year, whether it was going to rain or not.

These past three months have been leaning heavily towards favouring rain and anyone who looked out of a window this morning would insist you cancel any plans that involve going outdoors. Luckily for the Scarecrow, his To-Do list consisted solely of chemistry for the time being, working on a new and improved fear toxin always took time and he enjoyed the process of creating just as much as the use.

Currently, he sits cross legged on a dark wooden desk, in a desolate room at the top of an old office building, crumbling on one side but rather solid and dry on the other, perfect to hold up in for the time being. The rain acts as soothing background noise as he works, hunched over his notebook and scribbling words like a demon on a mission, looking up every now and again to look at the single papers strewn about further in front of him, checking previous formulas and their effects. Jonathan suddenly sits upright in reaction to the first crack of thunder reverberating somewhere outside.

Stretching and trying not to wince at the very audible crack, he decides a break is in order, then promptly lies down flat with his legs dangling off the desk. As much as he liked working to the sounds of the storm, letting his mind clear while he appreciates the rain might do him some good, he'd been working himself to the bone the past few weeks after all.

He lets his attention drift from the notebook to the walls; to the pealing once-white cream illuminating with light every few minutes and despite not being comfortable at all, he can't help but feel some semblance of cosy in this dilapidated structure, the storm raging on and undoubtedly beating down on some poor sucker making their way through the streets while he was nice and dry with no plans of leaving his current safe haven. It's enough to warm the cavity where Jonathan's heart would be if he had one.

Although, he can't help but notice how quiet everything would be without the storm, and a little part in the back of his head misses the Mad Hatter's antics. After a plan gone wrong, as per the norm, he'd gotten himself stuck back in Arkham and Jonathan tells himself he can't remember how long Tetch has been gone, as if he hadn't been counting the days with mounting frustration.

He'd gotten very used to the Hatter's visits, or 'impromptu tea parties' as Tetch called them, to the point that he'd had become unnerved by the long stretches of silence his days were built up of when Tetch wasn't dropping in unannounced every day. Jonathan wished the "revolving-door-policy" the press claimed Arkham had was actually in place, a game of chess almost made the idea of getting caught again appealing. Almost.

With a sigh, Jonathan remembers why he'd been so single-minded with his experiments these past weeks. His gaze is drawn, for the first time in a long time, to the dusty window across the room. The silly caricature of his friend he'd drawn on the glass with his finger welcomed his attention, and a renewed worry bit at his lungs again. It was so uncharacteristically childish of him, he didn't fully know why he'd done it, exhausted and bored and missing Tetch, but it made him recall a very old truth that sat in the back of his mind, one that he was… afraid to confront. From a young age he knew nothing good could come of it, so it had shoved into an isolated mental closet and left it to collect cobwebs.

_Pain, pain, go away, don't come back another day… I should have more control over myself than this!_

He needed to get back to work, anything to get his mind off Tetch, with more vigour than he had, now back in his previous position, Jonathan grabs the notebook and pen back off the desk and glares at his own writing like it had insulted his crows. And it works for a little while, almost two hours pass before the thoughts creep back in, and by that point he'd hit a wall with his research anyway, he'd need another test subject soon, he had too many questions about this modification that needed answering. In the meantime, working isn't working for him anymore and he doesn't know what else to do.

Maybe it would help if he wiped away that ridiculous drawing… but something from a non-existent place in his chest tells him not to, and he hates that he has to comply. Instead, Jonathan focuses his attention on the crevices in his desk, too old and worn to be smooth, likely why it had been abandoned but Jonathan didn't spare that much thought, whoever's loss is his gain. A grin splits his face as this realisation dawns, and a terrible joke occurs to him:

_I don't know much about ravens, but Scarecrow's apparently like writing desks._ Which is immediately followed by… _Damn it, Tetch, what are you doing to me?_


	2. Anchorage

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Chapter 2: Anchorage

"…Oh, I hope March ate those sandwiches I left before they went off." The Mad Hatter thought, far from the first time. He just couldn't stop going back to it, a question he couldn't answer in this dismal 'hospital'. "He gets so caught up in making his lotions and potions, he rarely goes out to get food on his own and if there isn't anything already in, he just doesn't eat! What a silly March Hare, with such reluctance to have a tea party."

Hatter had become concerned for the poor March Hare's eating habits during their previous stint in Arkham together last year, when he had mentioned during the first week that he'd always struggled adjusting to the portion sizes, as he usually didn't eat that much. Hatter was horrified, three meals a day with regular-for-a-hospital portions was too much for him? What? The Hatter set about to fix that, and he had, with only moderate difficulty!

Although, any actual objection to his visits had vanished after the sixth, that argument had truly been awful, but their friendship had been sailing far smoother than it ever had before after they had gotten back on speaking terms. However, Hatter worried about whether or not March had kept up the routine while he'd been gone, thoughts of his dear friend going without food again plagued him.

"-ter Tetch?", The sudden pause in their conversation had worried Dr. Leland for a moment, but she had been seeing him for a few years at this point and getting carried away with his thoughts was not unusual for this particular peculiar patient.

"Oh- yes, Doctor? I apologise, what were you saying?", With a sheepish attempt at a smile, he'd likely been wandering for a while, Leland knew.

"This is the end of the session," Leland reiterated, not particularly offended, though felt the need to remind Tetch of the time, being that he usually became agitated if he found he couldn't remember, "it's 11:15, Lunch is in an hour, I'll call a guard to take you back to your cell."

"Alright."

And with that, said guard was summoned to escort Jervis Tetch back to his cell.

The guard takes no care in closing the door, letting it slam shut not even an inch behind Tetch's head. What a twat! What if the door had knocked his head off? He keeps his hat there!

Not that he had it at the moment, confiscated as he'd been admitted. After spending a long minute pondering whether they'd let him have a hat if it didn't have his control band attached inside or take it from him anyway, he decided that Arkham was just an unpleasant place to be, full up of unpleasant people.

It might be another hour before lunch, but an hour meant something very different inside these old walls that it did in the city, which is what occurred to the Hatter as he made his way over to the bed, not for the first time. It stretched on for a day, a month, a year. Slow and stagnant, a perfect way to describe daily life in Arkham Asylum.

Not at all like Gotham City, if you lead the right sort of life… or wrong, if you ask Gotham's media. There's always something going on, if you haven't got a plan, someone else has and it's fairly easy to get a metaphorical slice of the pie since the Rogue's "unionised" a few years back after an incident with Two-Face and the Riddler, where they ended up at the same bank and had a scrap. Poor Dormouse got his arm broken, then swiftly made sure it would never happen again… March had found it pretty funny.

Hatter forgot frequently how long he had been in Arkham, honestly he had trouble keeping track of time in general but in Arkham it became agonisingly slow instead of the overwhelming rush time could be outside, he was sure it was a punishment for indulging in his latest heartworm, although you should be aware the Hatter knows that's an extremely understated way of referring to his infatuation with Alice Pleasance – "'And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, 'he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.'" – and he also knows that ever persistent rush of Time marching by continued as he'd idled in Arkham.

Inches of progress made and miles of missed opportunities! It grated at his bones like a kitchen utensil, pounded at his head like a tap-dancer, stole the moisture from his mouth like sandpaper! It had been a very bad idea to stick some to his tongue but well, as they say - "curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

But back to that blasted Time, it made him feel sick to be aware of the years passing outside as he dwindled away the minutes here. It's all his fault, the intangible bastard, Hatter wished he could grab Time by the shoulders and shake him until he sped up again. However, given the nature of time that may be counterproductive as "'Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock.'" And Hatter did indeed suppose that keeping on good terms with Time was precisely his predicament.

It made him miss freedom, being able to talk to anybody whenever he wanted… to talk to March. So much will have happened in the months he's been away, they had a magnitude of happenings to catch up on! And likely a magnitude of meals to catch up on as well… sleep was a good balm for this ailment, and Tetch decided it best he'd have it, as drowsy 40 minutes during the day would make him feel. Lunch would perk him up a bit, possibly take his mind off the beaten path of his wandering wondering.

And that amount of time later, plus maybe around 10 minutes, Tetch found himself sat at a table in the cafeteria completely unable to remember waking up and being taken here by a guard and this put him in a dreadful mood, as missing minutes often did.

On the other side of the table the Riddler decided The Slightly More Than Usual Mad Hatter was starting to get on his nerves and to have you know he absolutely wasn't worried about Tetch, but about himself if he was a perfectly honest man; he was definitely within fork-stabbing range of his acquaintance should his health take a turn for the worst. Tetch was quiet, which worried the Riddler because while he was a listener, he usually engaged with the Riddler as he talked, even if it was only a few words or a quote or two. This was not usual for the Hatter, and Riddler analysed his face from across the table as he talked, unable to gage the mood, not seeing any outward signs of a bad mood – but he was certainly not in a good one either.

Was he thinking about Alice? About being stuck in Arkham? Was there something wrong with his medication? Had it stopped working as effectively or had there been a mistake with the distribution? The worst part about this damned brain is it never stopped thinking. A blessing and a curse, truly. Once it had latched onto a problem, it couldn't stop before identifying a cause and a solution. It has caused, is causing, and will cause him endless stress. The one thing he couldn't do, no matter how hard he tried.

Worry, worry, worry around in circles about what might be up with Tetch. He hasn't made a move so far, so he could use a distraction, he didn't have to think while talking – anything he came out with was still far more intelligent than anything anyone else could say with all their brain power – so he's free to come up with one without it alerting Tetch. It's usually best to pick a subject relating to the one at hand, so he chose Alice, although the similarity of this action to Tetch's reason for sitting across from him was not lost on the Riddler. He probably even made a joke about it in his head, a pretty funny one.

He's likely still thinking about her - but is it responsible for the change in behaviour? – he's here because he's obsessed with her after all… it occurs to the Riddler that he hasn't really mentioned her outside of quotes for a long time… if they're about the person and not the fictional character, which he now believes they are not. His mouth doesn't stall for a second as he wonders about what their first meeting was like, was it normal? Or was Tetch over the top even then? Riddler realises he spends an excessive amount of time pondering relationships and how they occur for someone with nothing but complete disinterest with forming one himself… but he'll keep that card close to his chest and away from his head, if he can help it.

Suddenly, Tetch straightened his back with an alarming crunch, and grinned the cheshire-iest grin the Riddler had ever seen. Craning his head to the side he grimaced as the puns registered, then froze as a few puzzle pieces clicked together to form a hypothesis in his head.


End file.
